


Poppies in Winter

by LovelyAvalon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: F/M, Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 04:42:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyAvalon/pseuds/LovelyAvalon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too many innocents are caught up in subtle crime webs, ensnared as they attempt to pass by unnoticed. Whether those innocents be bystanders at a shoot-out, victims of a bank robbery, or a simple secretary working for a law firm. The latter applies to a young woman that became involved in a sprawling mystery she knew nothing about, forced by invisible hands and randomized texts to play a game that would spell death if she lost. She knew the odds and the players, but who was the puppeteer of such a dangerous play? Teaming up with famed detective Sherlock Holmes, she sets out to discover who is orchestrating her life so carefully.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poppies in Winter

**Author's Note:**

> his work is a melody of BBC-era Sherlock and Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock. It takes place long before the Reichenbach Fall, but well after Sherlock takes John Watson on as his companion. Although it is set in the same time as BBC's portrayal of a modern-day Sherlock, there will be many references to the novelization of Holmes' adventures and not all characters are like they are in the television show. For example: Mary Morstan is a happy housewife and not at all an undercover killer. Sorry if this is confusing! (/).(\\) Hopefully, you kind of understand, once you read the chapter.
> 
> Speaking of chapters... I may not be able to churn out chapters on a regular basis. I have school and other responsibilities to attend to, so please be patient. I will try to type up chapters as often as possible.
> 
> I only own Poppy Lewis (and some other minor characters). Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Mary Morstan, Sebastian Moran, and Jim Moriarty are not of my own creation. This is a total revision of my unfinished fanfiction of the same name on Wattpad. I didn't like where that one was going. :/
> 
> Well, thanks for reading, lovelies!

Working at an expansive law firm as a secretary has its equal perks and downsides, as every booming business does. One of the brighter sides of working at Baker and Miller are the incredible pay bonuses when Christmas rolls around. I, for one, thoroughly enjoy having funds enough to buy my friends and family nice gifts while having a lovely sum left over for splurging. A downside? The pressure of being a secretary for the head of the company is frankly daunting and sometimes oppressive. With the phone nearly always at my ear, my hands cramp on a daily basis from either writing extensive notes on hardcopy files or typing drawn-out emails to anxious shareholders. I manage all right, though. No job is perfect.

That day, however, seemed like a pretty perfect day. The workload was comparatively light and I actually had time that morning to snag a cup of coffee on my way there. Call me unpatriotic, but I have a strong dislike for tea of any kind. Coffee does just fine so I stick to that. Sipping at my still-warm coffee and languidly sending files off to be approved makes for, what I call, a ‘breathing’ day; a day I can breathe and not indulge in nearly constant stress. The click of my keyboard melded into the buzz of busy offices and purposeful footsteps across polished wood. My intercom beeped, alerting me to a call from the front desk.

“Yes?” I hummed, trying not to swallow my coffee too loudly. The cup was set aside until I could attend to this call.

“Miss Lewis, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes would like to speak with Mr. Miller,” rang the disinterested voice. “Does he have an appointment? He tells me he can’t recall if he does or not.”

I glanced down at my open calendar book, scanning the names scrawled there for ‘Holmes’. “Wait just a moment, please.” My finger came off the intercom button as I put a hold on work to skim the computer calendar. Some times, I admit to not transcribing appointments accurately enough. I might have missed one. I held down the intercom button again after a minute of searching. “No, there’s no appointment listed under the name ‘Holmes’.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s already gone up.”

“But Mr. Miller is in an important-“

The receptionist sighed, interrupting my protest. “I tried telling him that, but he didn’t seem to care. Security won’t bother with him because, apparently, he’s on a case for Scotland Yard.” My intercom shut off with a click and I was left in confusion, blinking wildly.

Scotland Yard? A case? Glancing at the gleaming elevators, I hurriedly typed in ‘Sherlock Holmes’ into the computer’s search engine. A wide range of images popped up, along with a short summary, describing his place in society. My lips formed a quiet ‘o’, the further I read. Many articles described him as a freelance detective, while others corrected that notion by labeling him as a consulting detective. Was there a legal issue with the firm? Had some underhand dealings been made? Why was there a detective coming? Those questions darted about my head as I scrambled to make sense of it. Before I could progress in my assumptions, someone was loudly clearing their throat.

My head snapped up to meet the gaze of a tall, dark-haired man who was obviously forcing a smile. A shorter, more anxious man stood by his side, looking apologetically to me. “Oh,” I said stupidly. The tall man hitched a brow at my reaction, which immediately launched me into reality. Clearing my throat, I donned a mask of professionalism and discreetly shut down the webpages with his face pasted all over them.

“Mr. Holmes,” I diplomatically began, “Mr. Miller is in an important meeting at the moment and-“

Interrupted again. “How do you know that he is not ‘Mr. Holmes’?” Sherlock pointed out in a knowing tone, his finger jabbing the shorter man’s direction. I could not help but notice the baritone volume of his voice and the crispness with which he spoke.

Looking to the shorter man, my cheeks reddened a bit. How did I know, indeed? It would be creepy to admit that I had researched the detective, so I decided to play dumb. I launched into a prompt apology, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I was jumping to conclusions. May I ask who Mr.-“

My eyes narrowed as I was interrupted for the third time that day. “Liar,” Sherlock promptly deduced “You weren’t assuming, you knew.” I was back to blinking at a rapid pace and looking, I assume, flustered.

The shorter man rushed to amend his friend’s brashness. “So sorry. Smart arse here likes to show off. I’m John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock looked to John with only mild consideration before turning his attention back to me. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Miller.”

Before I could produce the repeat of my explanation how that would not be possible, he surged past my desk and burst into my boss’ conference room. John cast another apologetic look at me before rushing after him. Agitated voices ensued, followed by a calmer, deeper voice before the door was closed. I was in a bit of shock from the whole experience, but I did not have time to dwell on what had just happened. A gunshot rang out, inducing screams all around. Well, then.

 - 

Long story short, the entire building was evacuated and the police swarmed the towering office building. I was treated as a witness and I relayed what I could before I slipped into a cab and was whisked back to my apartment. What had started out as a perfect day had turned into an interesting one. When I got back to my apartment, I kicked off my heels and sprawled on the couch, pencil skirt and all, to scroll through my mobile. I’m twenty-two, I swear.

Instagram, Facebook, Twitter – the whole nine yards. Nothing offered much interest save the news articles that were pouring in about the whole thing. Why was I so nonchalant about the whole ordeal? I should have been sobbing in realization that the bullet nearly pegged me in the back of the head. Instead, I was splayed out on a sage green couch with my legs every which way, mentally assessing my friend’s most recent picture on Instagram.

After social media served its purpose – sucking an hour of my life away – I set to researching Sherlock Holmes. I even stalked his blog for a good twenty minutes. It was interesting enough, full of lists and studies that frankly did not hold my attention for long. What really caught my attention was John Watson’s blog. Case after case was listed in stark detail, some solved, some unsolved. The rest of the evening was spent immersing myself in John’s descriptive writing and the brilliance of a detective and his friend.

Eight o’clock rolled around, four hours since I had been sent home from work and I hadn’t eaten dinner. My stomach’s raucous growling was the only thing that picked me off of the couch and propelled me towards the kitchen. All the while, my phone was still glued in my hands; I simply could not stop scrolling through case after wonderful case. From my own assessment, I deduced Sherlock Holmes to be an impassive, egotistical, frank, uncaring creature with a greater knowledge about cigar smoke than the solar system. Dr. John Watson, from my understanding, was a simple man with a warm heart who had been drafted (willing or not, I couldn’t tell) into a game of Clue. He acted as Sherlock’s conscience.

I blindly nabbed a yogurt cup and a can of soda. An odd combination, granted, but I was too distracted to eat anything sensible. Then, a message notification popped up across my screen, obscuring John’s blog. I would have let it go unanswered, but I noticed that the number was simply listed as ‘Unknown’. There wasn’t even have a number listed across the top. Furrowing my brow, I opened my messages and was promptly met with the strangest text I have ever received.

_You_ _were nearly shot through and office window, my dear, and yet, you are happily consuming a yogurt cup. I applaud your nonchalance. It’ll come in handy later._

“What the-?” I frowned at the illuminated screen. There was a moment’s hesitation before I responded to the text.

_Who is this?_

I must have looked comical, standing in the middle of my kitchen with a rumpled skirt, a half-eaten yogurt cup poised in midair, and a phone clutched tightly in my hand. How did this person know I was eating yogurt? Paranoia crept into my throat, threatening to choke me. Slowly, I sat the yogurt down and looked up from my phone. Odd. Hadn’t I left the living room light off? With soft steps, I slunk back into the living room, my mobile at my side.

“Hello?”

What possessed me to call that out was beyond me. All I know was that I heard glass shattering and another bullet slammed into the wall not a centimeter from my head. A strangled sort of sound escaped me: something that drifted between a scream and a whimper. It was one thing to nearly die at work. It was another to have your window shattered and almost die in your own living room. At least, in my mind there was a significant difference. Without a second thought, I ran out of my apartment, shaking as I dialed the police. As soon as I got off the phone, a trilling sound alerted me to another text.

_Oops. I missed._


End file.
